The Phone Call at 3:17 A.M.

I always kept my phone on silent at night. It was a habit I had developed to protect my sleep and my sanity. That is why the ringing at exactly 3:17 a.m. terrified me so deeply. It cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and sudden, dragging me out of a heavy dream.

I stared at the screen, confused and half-asleep. The number was unknown. No name. No location. Just a long string of digits that seemed wrong somehow. I let it ring until it stopped, my heart still racing.

A moment later, the phone rang again.

Against my better judgment, I answered.

“Hello?” I whispered.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but breathing on the other end. Slow, uneven breathing, as if the caller was struggling to pull air into their lungs. I was about to hang up when a voice finally spoke.

“Why didn’t you help me?”

The voice was weak and broken, but it was familiar. My chest tightened as I recognized it. It sounded exactly like my younger brother.

“You’ve got the wrong number,” I said quickly. “Who is this?

There was a pause. Then the voice said softly, “You promised.”

The line went dead.

I sat up in bed, shaking. My brother had died three years ago in a car accident. I hadn’t spoken about it much since then. I told myself grief was playing tricks on me. Still, I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., the phone rang again.

This time, I didn’t answer. I watched the screen light up, my hands clenched tightly under the blanket. The ringing stopped, and a text message appeared.

Why are you ignoring me now?

I dropped the phone like it had burned me

Over the next few nights, the calls continued. Always at 3:17. Always from a different number. When I answered, the voice blamed me. It spoke of cold nights, of pain, of being alone. It reminded me of the last time I had spoken to my brother, of the argument we had before he left that night.

“You said you were busy,” the voice whispered during one call. “I waited.”

Guilt settled deep in my chest. I stopped sleeping altogether, afraid of the ringing. I turned my phone off at night, but it still rang. The sound echoed through the room even when the screen was dark.

Desperate, I checked the call logs one morning. Every call was listed, but there was no number attached. Just the time

3:17 a.m.

I visited my brother’s grave that afternoon, hoping for peace. As I stood there, my phone vibrated in my hand

“You found me,” the message read. “But you’re still late.”

That night, the phone rang earlier than usual. I answered, tears already falling.

“What do you want?” I cried.

The voice was clearer now, stronger. “I want you to listen,” it said. “Like I did.”

The room grew colder. I felt the weight on the bed beside me, the mattress sinking slowly. My phone slipped from my hand as the voice whispered close to my ear, no longer coming from the device.

The room grew colder. I felt the weight on the bed beside me, the mattress sinking slowly. My phone slipped from my hand as the voice whispered close to my ear, no longer coming from the device.

“I’m not calling anymore,” it said. “I’m here.”

The lights went out.

The next morning, my phone was found on the floor, cracked and silent. No one ever heard it ring again.

But every night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., I wake up to the sound of breathing beside my bed.